There is a reason it took a few days to get to the next post. I've sat down multiple times to write this, and have come up empty handed every time. Oh it's not that I don't have things to forgive myself for, but which one? I come from a long line of Catholics, and we do guilt very well. I'm also the third of four children, I was the blame taker and the peace maker. I don't have any problem blaming myself for something, ask my therapist. (and see my previous post about worth and blame)
Then, while reading Heather's post regarding this same topic, about how she should forgive herself for being unforgiving to herself, when I laughed out loud because I was just thinking "I need to forgive myself for being unable to forgive myself". There is a reason we're friends, folks.
But really, that also seems too vague and impossible. So I had to think... what do I really need to forgive myself for? Infertility? Autism? more infertility? How well my business is or isn't doing? how good dinner was or wasn't? Oh wait... this all goes back to the same ideas behind the worth and blame post. Good lord, I'm boring and cyclic, aren't I.
There is one thing that has gnawed at me off and on for the past four years, that I truly need to forgive myself for. Ruby's birth. We had a planned home birth, that took an unexpected turn. My water broke, and for 2 days I only had contractions when I laid down to rest (yes, thats weird). I stayed close to home, walked, did acupuncture, homeopathy, did everything I could to move things along. Nothing, also very little sleep. Finally, on day 3 I drank a castor oil milk shake and well, as they say 'the shit just got real' (in more ways than one). I went from contractions every 15 minutes that didn't really bother me to WHOPPERS every 3 minutes lasting well over a minute. We were in business! I labored in the tub for 10 hours, only getting out to go to the bathroom and to have the midwife check things out once (wherein she had to pull my cervix forward, and OH HOLY HELL THAT HURT). Finally after 10 or so hours, I was complete and felt like pushing. I clearly remember my (wonderful) midwife saying "you won't have to push for long, this baby is LOW". Oh. such fateful words. Words I know she wishes she never said.
I pushed. And pushed. And pushed. I pushed in the tub. I pushed on the ball. I pushed on the toilet. I pushed on the birth stool. I pushed on the bed. I pushed holding on to the stairwell. I pushed. For thirteen hours. Yeah, read that again. I pushed. For. Thirteen. Hours.
It wasn't as hellacious as it sounds. I mean, truly the longest hour was the one between the time we decided to transfer and the time I got an epidural. I remember telling everyone that it hurt during those 13 hours, but I didn't feel PAIN and want it OVER, until I realized that I was doing all of that hard work and this baby wasn't coming out. There was no danger, no one was in peril. My blood pressure never went over 100/70 (until I got to the hospital) and Ruby's heart rate never faltered. She just got stuck, and I got tired. So tired. By the last hour, my contractions were every 10 minutes and I was so. so. so tired. That last hour, when our midwife had said "I think we need to talk about transfer", I pushed so hard, I screamed like an animal, the last thing I wanted was to transfer, because I knew that the second I walked out of my house, I was walking into a c-section.
Forgiving myself for not succeeding at home birth is not the end of this story. Sure I need to forgive myself for that one, but there is something bigger, sadder, worse. My c-section was horrible. I wasn't remotely prepared for it. I wasn't prepared for the shaking, the violating feeling of having someone inside of my body. I wasn't prepare to be able to feel someone's forearm in my vagina pushing Ruby's very stuck head back up so they could pull her out. I was NOT prepared for the panic that rushed up from my gut and straight into my heart and head and completely threw me for a loop. Within seconds of her being born I was having the worst anxiety attack of my life. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't focus, I just wanted OUT. I was screaming, begging the anesthesiologist to get me OUT OF THERE. He kept peering over the curtain, telling me that I should probably just wait a few more minutes.
Ryan brought Ruby over for me to meet her, and I couldn't. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't focus, I didn't have any idea what was going on, and I couldn't. I couldn't meet my daughter. I couldn't pull my shit together long enough to place my eyes on this child that I had yearned so desperately for. I couldn't.
Finally, the anesthesiologist asked me if I'd like him to take the edge off. YES. PLEASE. I said, and then I woke up in the recovery room. There are pictures of my holding Ruby, smiling at her, peering at her little face. But I don't remember it. Those pictures fill me with such sadness, because they happened to someone else. I don't remember the first time I held my daughter. I was so disconnected from the anxiety and drugs that the only memory I have of holding my precious child for the first time, is in a picture.
This is what I need to find forgiveness in my heart for. It's not going to happen today, but that's what therapy is for, right?